


The Tenth Thing

by disparity



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7360588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disparity/pseuds/disparity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran has fallen for a man who makes cringeworthy puns and narrates his dog's life in a bad Orlesian accent. It is ridiculous and wonderful, and he will never admit it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tenth Thing

Amell is clutching the edge of a soup bowl in one hand as the other brandishes a wooden spoon, jabbing it skyward with each terribly accented syllable. “And zen I showed zat cat 'oo was boss!” he shouts. The large dog at his side lets out an excited yip at the word 'cat,' and Leliana giggles from across the fire. Amell, spurred on by their encouragement, swings the spoon like a blade as he continues, “'E will sink twice before 'e comes at me again!”

When Zevran appealed to this man for his life, he did so with a generous amount of wit and charm. He'd been rather impressed with himself at the time; his skills have saved his life many times over, and he has a right to be proud of them. After a day spent in Amell's company, Zevran is now quite certain that he could have successfully bargained for his life with a shiny bit of ribbon.

“I feel I should be offended by this,” says Leliana, the words slightly muffled by her hands.

“Oh.” Amell lowers the spoon suddenly, looking sheepish. “Sorry, Leliana.”

She shakes her head, sighing happily. “Not to worry. I have lived in Ferelden for some time now. Believe it or not, I have heard far worse.”

The dark-haired witch, who has been loitering with the cookware despite her insistence on maintaining her own private campfire, says, “I am quite certain that is impossible.” She quickly wraps up and leaves them, as if she'd simply been waiting to interject a haughty comment before stalking off into the night.

“I am curious,” says Zevran before Amell can start up again, “Where did your dog obtain his Orlesian accent?”

Amell shrugs and says, “Well, he ate Alistair's cheese,” as if this explains everything.

A shout of, “That dog owes me cheese!” comes from the direction of Alistair's tent, prompting another giggle from Leliana and inspiring Amell to continue at an even higher volume, “No cheese shall be safe from zee fearsome 'ound!”

Zevran absently rubs the tattoo on his face, wondering if this is all some sort of elaborate ruse.

***

Zevran is not often surprised—he happens to be rather good at his job, disregarding the fact that he was bested by a man with a fondness for knock-knock jokes which borders on the obsessive—but he finds he is entirely unprepared for Warden Amell crawling into his tent one night and demanding to know exactly how long it's going to take before Zevran ties him up and fucks him into the ground.

Amell is neither as young nor as innocent as he looks. Zevran finds that his sense of humor is not always terrible and is much improved once he's properly worn out. He is occasionally witty, and failing that, very complimentary of Zevran's wit. He's capable of holding pleasant conversation and happens to be an attentive listener, a skill with a variety of successful applications.

Despite the dearth of available lovers on the road, Zevran does not consider himself monogamous—in fact, every time their party stops in a reasonably well-populated area, he makes a point of finding someone other than Amell to take to bed. Amell has agreed to every last one of his terms, but words only mean so much, and Zevran won't allow resentment to fester. He has to be certain that Amell understands what is being offered, and that he is able to accept everything it means (and doesn't).

Even after he's satisfied that Amell is truly content with their arrangement, Zevran continues to take other partners with regularity. He assumes that Amell is doing the same until Wynne informs him otherwise. She seems to think that he is being dishonest with Amell, which he has never been, but he starts to doubt.

He intends to address the issue that night, but Amell wheedles it out of him as they're walking through the country side by side. (Should he be worried that Amell can read him so easily?)

“I spoke with Wynne earlier,” he confesses, and that's as far as he gets before Amell interrupts him with a groan.

“I should've known she'd get on your case, too.” He scratches the bridge of his nose. “She called me 'irresponsible.' What'd you get saddled with?”

Zevran hums. “I believe the phrase was, 'wanton scoundrel.'”

Amell snorts, then looks down at him with a half-grin and a shrug, as if to say, 'Well, she's not wrong.'

“She seemed to be quite convinced that I am breaking your virtuous heart.”

He watches Amell's reaction closely. There is no trace of hurt in his face, his guileless laughter. “Virtuous,” he repeats, chuckling. “I don't know where everyone keeps getting that idea.”

Zevran pushes a little farther, tone carefully neutral as he says, “She also informed me that you have taken no other lovers.”

Instantly, Amell looks sheepish. “Oh. Yeah.” He stares at his feet for a few moments, then turns back to Zevran with a shrug. “I don't know. I'm just... I mean, I'm not as good as you with... that sort of stuff.”

“My dear, no one is as good as me,” says Zevran, purposefully lightening his tone.

“It bothers you, though. Doesn't it?”

Now it is Zevran's turn to avoid eye contact. “I simply wish to verify that you are content with the details of our arrangement.”

“You're really persistent about that,” says Amell with that lopsided grin of his. (It shouldn't be sexy. It is.)

“I have no desire to cause you pain.” His voice drops as he adds, “Unless you beg for it.”

Amell chuckles lightly. They walk in silence in for a few moments until he breaks it. “Zev,” he says, and Zevran doesn't think his name has ever sounded so important before, “I will never ask you to be anything more than what you are.”

“Oh?” says Zevran, forcing levity, pretending Amell's words haven't knocked the wind out of him. “And what am I, Grey Warden?”

“Do you need me to tell you?” asks Amell gently.

Zevran shrugs, the gesture too sharp and quick. “It might be amusing.”

Amell pauses. Zevran hold his breath until he asks, “Is amusing you all I'm good for?” It's playful and easy and just the distraction that Zevran needs.

“Of course not,” he says. “You are good for...” He pretends to think, humming softly. “At least nine things.”

The tension visibly rushes out of Amell. “And just what are these nine things, pray tell?”

“Ah, let's see. Killing things. Starting fires.” He glances up with an eyebrow raised. “Entertaining me, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“Persuading people to do all manner of filthy things that enter your mind.”

Amell winks. “Some people don't require all that much persuading.”

“Too true, my Warden,” he agrees. “Where was I?”

“You're on five.”

“Listening to people talk about their various experiences and complaints. Rescuing people in need of rescue. Looking very, very handsome while doing it.” He shoots Amell a suggestive look and earns a laugh. He has to think on the next one, snapping his fingers when he gets it. “Getting the bloodstains out of clothing afterwards—that is actually quite impressive.

“I've a gift for cleaning. I'd make an excellent farmwife,” says Amell with a self-satisfied nod. “Two more.”

Zevran frowns for a moment. “Hmm.” He draws out the sound, and Amell shoots him a look. “I am having trouble recalling your other areas of expertise.”

Amell snags an arm around Zevran's waist, leaning down to say softly, “I'll have to think of some way to jog your memory.” He nips at Zevran's ear, causing a hiss.

“Ah, right.” Unceremoniously, he says, “Sex.”

“Is that all you have to say on that point?” asks Amell, looking appropriately miffed. His arm is still around Zevran. They walk slower, and Alistair and Leliana are catching up from behind them.

“What need is there to overstate the obvious?” he offers.

“Alright, I'll that one slide.” Amell purses his lips together briefly. “You've got one more, though.”

“That was nine.”

“It was eight!” Amell insists.

With a laugh, Zevran says, “You should leave the beguiling to me, my dear. That is not one of your skills.”

“Damn! I nearly had you at ten.”

“If it appeases your ego to believe that, then I shall allow it.”

“That's very generous of you,” says Amell with a pleased noise.

Zevran's hand wanders to Amell's backside. “I am a generous man,” he says, and he doesn't think he'll ever get used to the way Amell's face lights up like that.

Alistair ruins the moment. He's closer behind them than Zevran thought. (Too distracted. He shouldn't let his guard down so easily.) “Alright. That's enough of that,” he says. “You two need to be separated. You, walk with me.” He grabs Amell by the arm, pulling him forward, leaving Leliana behind. He points back at Zevran. “You stay there.”

“Aha, betrayed by the virginal Chantry boy!” says Zevran, and Amell laughs. “I should have seen it coming.”

“Yes, ha ha, very funny.” Alistair turns back, sticking his tongue out. He and Amell could be brothers. “When I'm king, you can be my court jester. You'll wear the funny hat and everything.”

“Don't wear him out too much, Alistair,” Zevran warns, ignoring the jibe. “I have very big plans for him tonight.”

Leliana groans audibly, and Zevran stops for a moment to let her catch up. “Not again,” she pleads. “Could you not give us one night of rest? I am dead on my feet!”

“Perhaps tonight I could gag Amell. Would that help?”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously before saying, “Yes.”

“And what shall I gag him with?”

“Oh, for the love of-!”

Leliana joins Alistair and Amell. They stay that way until Amell uses his dog to distract Alistair, then falls back and slips his arm around Zevran's waist without a word. Morrigan complains about their languorous pace, at which point they have no choice but to spend the rest of the walk necking obscenely.

***

When Amell takes a bad hit from an enterprising hurlock (and makes a worse joke about it), Zevran slips up and calls him _mi amor_. In hindsight, it feels inevitable. He's tried to be careful around Amell, but the man is very disarming, and it's only more effective considering that it is entirely accidental. After a lifetime of searching for hidden motives, Zevran finds such incessant honesty refreshing, and it's starting to affect him in the best (worst) ways.

Amell doesn't ask for a translation, doesn't treat the term of endearment differently from any other, so Zevran uses it again and again. He thinks he's getting away with it until they're settling in for the night, joking and chatting as usual when suddenly Amell says, “I know what _amor_ means.”

Zevran never panics, but he does freeze for a moment before saying, “Ah. It appears you've caught me.” He turns to Amell, who looks surprised at the easy admission. Zevran nods solemnly and says, “Yes, my Warden. All this time, I have been calling you... a fish.”

Laughter bubbles out of Amell, along with the incredulous words, “A _what_?”

“I am afraid it is true,” he says, trying to hold back a smile. Amell's laugh has an infectious quality, and Zevran is quite certain he's developed a weakness to it. “The _amor_ is a variety of fish that inhabits the coasts of Antiva. It is actually quite tasty.” His voice lowers. “Salty and firm,” he says with a smirk. “You see why I chose it.”

“You're a liar,” Amell accuses between laughs, still shaking with mirth.

“I am an assassin,” declares Zevran. “You should never trust an assassin.”

Amell's grin turns wicked. “So you admit you're lying.”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“You implied it.”

“Did I?” asks Zevran, crawling toward Amell, who sits atop his bedroll leaning back easily on his hands.

“Absolutely,” he says with confidence.

Zevran leads with his mouth, pressing a kiss to Amell's collarbone. He keeps his hands to himself, even as Amell sighs and cranes his neck in a wordless invitation. Zevran hums with faint amusement as he asks, “Are you certain?”

“I'm...” Amell pauses, then gasps as Zevran nips gently at his neck. “Becoming less certain.”

Zevran earns two more breathy sighs and an ' _Oh, Maker_ ' before Amell says, “Hang on.” He grips Zevran's arm gently, stopping the slow strokes of his hand. “How is it that our conversations always end with your hand down my trousers?”

With a chuckle, Zevran says, “They are very good conversations.”

“Or you're trying to distract me,” he murmurs into Zevran's hair.

“From...?”

“Ahh. I forget.”

Zevran resumes, and Amell's hand finds his hair instead, dragging fingers lightly across his scalp. “I can make you forget more than that,” Zevran promises.

“More than...” Amell grunts. “What, again?”

“Nothing, mi amor,” he purrs, and if Amell notices, he doesn't mention it. Zevran pushes him gently, and they slide to the floor. “Lie back and listen to the sound of my voice.”

“You have a very sexy voice,” Amell admits, and it's the last intelligible thing he says until morning.

***

They are walking through the Frostbacks, huddled together against the cold, when Zevran abruptly says, “I have thought of number ten,” because lately he has been thinking a lot more than he's been saying, and it is growing tiresome.

“What?” asks Amell, looking away from Oghren, whose drunken singing is barely audible over the wind.

“The tenth thing you are good for,” he clarifies.

Amell furrows his brow before breaking into a grin that is entirely too pleased. “Hmm, I see,” he remarks, trying to be coy. He soon gives up. “Are you going to tell me?

“No.”

Amell scoffs. “Why not?”

“Why would I do that?” asks Zevran, who is much better at playing coy.

“Well, you brought it up!” Amell sounds petulant, which only widens Zevran's smirk. “You can't just say that and not tell me.”

“Can I not?”

With a long-suffering groan, Amell complains, “You are such a tease.”

“You like it.”

And he knows it's true because no matter how hard-to-get he plays, Amell is always there waiting for him to come back within reach.

***

Wynne approaches him a second time. She is less obvious on this occasion, waiting until Amell is distracted by a merchant hocking his wares to appear beside Zevran, her posture stiff, facing forward.

“Ah, my darling Wynne,” he purrs. “What can I do for you?”

She sighs but chooses not to comment on the epithet (this time). “It is not my right to pry,” she says, and Zevran chuckles at that, “but I have noticed that you haven't taken another partner in some time.”

“So this is about Amell again.” He mimics her sigh. “Why do we never talk about anything else, you and I?”

“Because you are incapable of taking anything seriously.” She frowns, then continues, “I don't expect you to take this seriously either, but I must say it.”

“Well? Do not keep me in suspense!”

“I doubt I will ever understand the nature of your relationship with Amell, but it is clear to me that you are quite taken with each other.” She glances at him, visibly perturbed by the easy smirk on his face. “Since I cannot convince either of you to see reason, I instead urge you to be careful with his heart. He is a very important man, and Thedas cannot afford to lose him to you.”

“Lovely Wynne,” he sighs, placing his hands on his hips. “I have had many parts of Amell, but his heart is not one of them.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Oh? And I suppose you will claim that he does not have yours either?”

“Usually I have him, but fortunately, it works both ways.”

“Make your jokes, if you insist. I have said my piece.” She takes a step toward Amell, then turns back. Bafflingly, her lips press together in a thin smile, and that's when Zevran starts to worry. “For what it's worth, the two of you seem very happy together,” she says, sounding almost fond. “I hope you are clever enough to see the value in that.”

Zevran used to think he was clever, but he is starting to consider the possibility that he is a fool. (And he thinks he might like being foolish.)

***

Though it may not be obvious to look at him, Zevran is a disciplined man. The Crows taught him early that there is a certain order to things, and that breaking that order results in pain. He has always lived his life within a clear set of rules, and though they are not the rules that most people know, they are effective. They keep him alive, which is what they are designed to do—in fact, that is the _only_ thing they are designed to do.

Before he met Amell, he was content to simply be alive with his appetites sated and his need for excitement fulfilled. He's not certain where, exactly, he went wrong (right). He's always been very clear with Amell, and Amell has happily taken whatever he's offered without asking for more. It is the perfect arrangement, and yet, Zevran is not satisfied.

Amell notices. (And yes, he _should_ be unsettled by the way Amell sees through his excuses. He still isn't.) He prods, but Zevran dodges expertly until Amell gets clever with it.

“Zev?” he whispers after they're spent and sated, legs intertwined, Amell's hand gently massaging his scalp. Zevran grunts in acknowledgement, and Amell brushes soft lips against his forehead. “What's the tenth thing?”

Zevran chuckles lazily. “You have been spending too much time around unsavory types, my pet. You are becoming devious.”

“Tell me.” In the absence of a forthcoming answer, he moves his lips to Zevran's ear, drags his teeth along the outer lobe gently, and repeats, “ _Tell_ me.”

With a sigh, Zevran says, “You are good for... this.”

“That's not fair,” Amell protests. “You already said sex.”

“Not sex.” He tucks his head beneath Amell's chin, stroking his calf with his bare toes. “This.”

“Cuddling?”

“No.”

Amell's arm wraps around his waist, and Zevran nuzzles approvingly against his neck. “What, then?” Amell persists.

Zevran sighs, argues silently with himself, and then says, “Fishing.”

He can feel Amell's chuckle in his throat as he repeats, “Fishing?” Zevran freezes, and it takes a moment for Amell to notice. He tightens his grip, laying his forehead against Zevran's hair. “Well, you're an excellent fisherman,” he offers softly. “I consider myself very lucky to have been caught.”

Zevran relaxes by degrees. He lets himself ease into Amell's embrace, and it feels like he's falling in the worst (best) way. He lets it happen, sinking into free fall. It's light and warm, and all the rules are broken, and he doesn't care.

Amell shifts, and Zevran feels him tense for a moment before he says in a rush, “You might say I'm the luckiest fish in the sea.” Zevran pinches his side, and Amell yelps. “I'm sorry, Zev, I had to,” he insists, laughing breathlessly. “It was _right there_.”

Zevran catches his laughter, and it echoes between them, warming him to the toes. He is, unquestionably, a fool.


End file.
